The Question
by ICanStopAnytime
Summary: Sayid and Ana Lucia have more in common than they know. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**The Question**

"Do you have any kids?" Ana-Lucia asked Sayid as he sat bound to the tree.

She was not the first person to ask him the question. There was an American soldier who had asked it, after Sayid had tortured a man for the first time. The question had disturbed him then, too. But Ana's question also left him feeling defenseless and strangely exposed. In a measured tone, he said, "Why are you asking me if I have children?"

"I'm curious."

"I do not," he answered truthfully, refusing to reveal any hint of just how painful a truth that was. But his memory returned to another lifetime, long before the island, long before Shannon, even years before Nadia had walked, accused and chained, into his life.

-----

Sayid stood before the mirror and adjusted his sleeves…anything to distract himself from the knowledge that he was about to marry a stranger. Hassan stood beside him, his face twisting into an annoying smirk. "I used to envy you, little brother," he said to Sayid. "You were always Father's favorite, the only one who had the privilege of being sent to University. But at least I got to _choose_ my wife."

Sayid ignored Hassan and continued his adjustments. His elder brother rolled back on his heels. "When did you last see her? When you were ten?"

"Eight," Sayid answered. That was when his father, who had been indebted to her father for his life, had made the promise. Since then, Sayid had only seen her during the engagement period, in the company of her chaperone, and he did not feel he had come to know her even a little.

"You could have gotten out of it, you know," Hassan said. "Mother would not have insisted, and Father is no longer here to object. Certainly her family would have been angered, but--"

"It is not as if I have an interest in anyone else," interrupted Sayid.

"You think you must do this to honor Father's memory?" Hassan asked.

"I have completed my studies," answered Sayid. "I have just begun my career. I ought to have a wife. Father thought highly of her parents. No doubt they raised her well. I suppose I have as good a chance of happiness with her as with anyone." He turned from the mirror.

Hassan shrugged and looked at his watch. "It's time," he said.

Later, when Sayid stood outside the door to his bride's room, he felt an odd mixture of excitement, fear, and discomfort. What would it be like to consummate a marriage with a stranger? At least she was pretty, he thought, in a nondescript sort of way. And he was a man—he was sure the desire would form easily enough. That was not his concern. But if he was ill at ease, what must she—whose experience of the world was far more limited—be feeling? And how would she react to him? Would she approach him as an unpleasant duty to be fulfilled?

Sayid opened the door. His bride was seated on the bed and dressed in a simple robe that fell to her ankles. When he approached her, Hala pulled her knees up to her chest and clasped them tightly. She glanced at him shyly, and then she turned her attention to her feet. When he was standing beside her at the edge of the bed, he said, "Do not be afraid. I will be gentle."

But she _was_ afraid, and she grew rigid with his first small attempt at intimacy. "What precisely do you fear, Hala?" he asked. "Perhaps I can set your mind at ease."

"It will hurt," she said quickly.

"Yes…" he responded slowly, "but only briefly, and then there will be pleasure."

"For _you_."

_What has her mother told her?_ he wondered. "And for you," he assured her. She did not appear to believe him. "Let me…let me show you. Could you manage to trust me, do you think?"

"I will try."

Though he made every effort to arouse her, and though she responded naturally to his considerate touch, it was on the whole an awkward experience. After he entered her, she could not forget the pain long enough to enjoy herself. He took his own pleasure quickly and guiltily, and when he was done, she turned away. He lay on his back, thinking he should try to talk to her, but he was at a loss for words. Finally, he said, "It will be better next time." He lay awake for a good hour before drifting off to sleep beside her.

It did get better after that. She quickly came to enjoy their union, even to invite it with not-so-subtle hints when he stayed away from bed too late at night, pouring over his students' papers (for he taught mathematics at the local school in those days). She was attractive and attentive, and although her education was limited, she had an eager mind, and he could hold decent conversations with her. He came to feel for her, if not precisely love, at least a deep affection.

Tonight, as he lay holding her in their bed, she told him she was pregnant. Sayid felt pride, but he felt fear first. Since his father's death, he had helped his brother support his mother and unmarried sisters. A wife had taxed his meager resources, and the family house was crowded enough as it was. A child might stretch him beyond his financial limits.

He had been thinking about this situation for some time, and he had considered making a change, but Hala's pregnancy was the deciding factor. "I am going to join the military," he told her.

She sat up abruptly. "What? Why?" she asked, clearly alarmed.

Why it should be a shock to her he did not know. His father and her own had both been soldiers. Indeed, Sayid's father was a war hero, and both of his parents had expected him to follow in those exalted footsteps, earning honor and prestige in the service of his country. Sayid's initial reluctance to do so had offended his father and baffled his mother.

"Because," he answered, "soon enough, I can probably earn my way into the Republican Guard. If I can manage that, I will be paid well. We will even be given a car and an apartment. Wouldn't you like that? To have our own home?"

"Not nearly as much as I would like to have you alive and near."

"Hala, if I do not join voluntarily, I am likely to be forced to join eventually. War is coming. Everyone knows it. But if I volunteer, if I show my loyalty even before I am forced to, I will have a better chance of advancement."

"But the war could still be months in coming," she pled. "Can't you wait until you are forced? And if they try to force you, can't you try to avoid it? You will be away for long periods of time…you will hardly know your child."

"Hala," he said, "this is not negotiable. I have a responsibility to provide for you and for our child. The decision has been made."

She rose angrily and paced the floor, but soon her anger dissolved into tears. He came to her and held her. "Please don't," he said.

"Perhaps…" she said, "Perhaps if you loved me, you would not do this."

He released her from his arms. "What do you accuse me of? Have I been anything but loyal and affectionate towards you?"

"Affection is not love, Sayid."

"What is love if not fidelity and tenderness?"

"I cannot explain what love is, Sayid. I cannot explain how what I have come to feel for you is different from what I think you feel for me. Perhaps someday you will love someone enough to know what I mean. I can only hope that someone is me."

Sayid did join the military, and on the occasions when he was at home, Hala did not complain about his choice or openly lament it. Instead, she received him eagerly, and gave herself fully, and took what he could offer her.

But tonight, even she could not help but prod him. "The grocer Asad," she said softly, "died while you were gone."

He sat on the bed and began removing his boots. "I am sorry to hear it."

Hala rotated her hairbrush absently in her hands. "He was taken by the Republican Guard," she said, laying the brush down on the vanity and turning to face him. "They killed him, Sayid. They beat him to death."

Sayid methodically lined up his discarded boots at the edge of the bed. "Then he must have been guilty of something."

"Of what?" she asked.

He looked up, startled by the unexpected edge to her tone.

"Asad was more harmless than a fly," she continued. "And this is the group of men you want to earn your way into?"

"Hala--" he said, rising from the bed.

She was nearly crying now. "This is the work you want to do?"

"Not _that_!" he insisted as he came to stand beside her. "There are so many things I could do. My technological skills, my knowledge…I would not have to do _that_."

"I hope so," she said. "I would hate to think that these hands," she clasped one of his now, "which have been so gentle with me…I would hate to think that these hands could do such things."

He let his free hand caress the flesh that housed their unborn child. "I swear to you, Hala, these hands will never do such things."


	2. Chapter 2

----

Sayid shifted against the earth and felt his bonds cut into his flesh. Ana-Lucia's question still unsettled him, but he knew she had not seen into his past or suspected the remnants of some old scar. She, he thought, was contemplating whom she might orphan. And if she had children herself, perhaps she was considering how her actions might shame them. He echoed her question: "Do you have children?"

And she too answered with the truth: "No."

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked. Better to be pointed. She did not seem the subtle type. "That's what you're thinking about, isn't it?"

"Should I?"

_Should_ she? Of course she only meant, _Will you kill me if I do not kill you first?_ But Sayid saw his hand on Hala's stomach, and he heard his broken promise—broken not once, not twice, but dozens of times…broken even here, on this very island.

"Almost forty days ago," he confessed, "I tied a man to a tree and tortured him. I tortured him as I've tortured many men...men whose voices I still hear in the night. _Should_ you kill me? Maybe you should. Maybe you were meant to."

He was not seeking absolution; he was seeking a different kind of release, the release that only death can bring. He did not know what she was seeking as she made her own confession of reacting too slowly, of letting a man reach when she should have made him drop.

"What happened to him?" Sayid asked. "The man who shot you?" When she hesitated to answer, he grew nervous. "What happened to him?"

"Nothing," she replied hastily. "They never found him."

And then she came to him with the blade, and the guttural fear surpassed the cyclical guilt, and in that instant he did not want to die.

She cut him free. Instinctively he rose and looked at the gun. "Go ahead," she said. "Pick it up. I deserve it."

And she did, he thought, for killing the woman who had brought him hope, the woman who should have marked a fresh start to a new life, a life that no longer seemed possible. Ana _deserved_ to die. But he deserved to die, too, didn't he? Even here, he hadn't been able to break free from his past. And he hadn't been able to defend the one thing that might have helped him to break free. He had thrown away his second chance.

"What good would it be to kill you," he asked, "if we're both already dead?"

Sayid walked away from the silent shell of a woman, and he bent to the mud-soaked earth, from which he lifted Shannon's lifeless body.

He had not held Hala when she died; he had not carried her body home; he had not even stood beside her grave when she was buried. Sayid had been a hundred miles from Tikrit when he heard the news that his wife and unborn child had been killed by a suicide bomber. The target had been a representative of Sadaam's regime. The terrorist had misjudged the extent of the blast, or he had not cared. Hala had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sayid could not obtain permission to return to Tikrit until two weeks after her death.

Hala had been part of his life for barely a year, and he had tried to suppress the pain by suppressing the memory. He had rolled it under the cover of more than a decade of time…Shannon had been but a little girl when Hala had died. More haunting memories had arisen to eclipse the thought of his wife and unborn child—memories of what he had become, of what he had done, and of the childhood friend who had revealed him to himself.

And now _this_ memory, as fresh as the blood on his shirt. He grasped Shannon tightly to his chest and began his solitary walk to the shore.

**The End**


End file.
